


Life on Mars: Soccer AU; Episode 2: Arsenal 1/2

by amproof



Series: Life on Mars: Football AU [2]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Football | Soccer, Gen, M/M, Other, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-13
Updated: 2009-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:21:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Life on Mars.  With football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast in the world of professional soccer/football.   
>  My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  
> Finally, huge thanks to my beta karaokegal and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers lady_t_220 and siluria. I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.
> 
> ETA 1/5/14: Notes above are preserved from original posting on LJ. This series **will not** be continued as I have moved fandoms.

Title: Life on Mars: Soccer AU; Episode 2: Arsenal 1/2  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 18597 overall, in 2 parts.  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

[Episode 1: Newcastle United](http://amproof.livejournal.com/tag/episode1:newcastle+united)

"Looked like Sam was a goner for a minute there, Tom."

"Too right, Ed. The boy fair near flatlined."

"He'll definitely have to show more care in the future towards avoiding those...I don't even know what to call what he did. Jumping without a net..."

Sam twitched in his sleep.

"I think 'idiotic leap' is a fair term."

"Sure. I'll go with that. Idiotic leap."

He opened his eyes. The glow from the television lit up the ceiling in shadows. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and dragged himself towards it.

"But, he looks to be back and fighting fit today, and not a moment too soon, either, as City are up against Arsenal this week. They’re are a formidable team and nobody wants to be anything other than 100% when they face them.

"Couldn't have said it better meself, Tom."

"I'm starting to dislike you guys," Sam said. He waited to see if they would answer back. They didn't. He pushed a button, and the television screen closed down to a centric dot of light which slowly disappeared.

First order of the day was a strategy meeting with Hunt. Sam stood in front of Hunt's desk, stifling a yawn in his coat sleeve as Hunt shuffled papers on his desk.

"Looking for anything in particular, Guv?"

"Know it when I find it."

Evidently, he did not find it because after a moment, he gave up and leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.

"So. Talk."

Sam nodded. Updates he could do. "As you know, we're meeting Arsenal in three days. I have the men training six hours today and tomorrow and I'd like to add two hours the day of the match."

"The day of the match?"

"Yes."

"You trying to kill them?"

"Trying to get them into shape. Trust me, Guv."

"Fine. But don't go putting any of them into a coma."

"Yes, Guv."

"I've restructured the training sessions to focus mainly on relearning the basics. Not all the men are happy about it, but I've been seeing improvement all around, especially from Skelton."

"Good. And Carling?"

"What about him?"

"What have you got him doing?"

"He's leading the training session while I'm here with you."

Hunt smiled.

"What?"

"Have a look." He gestured towards the window behind himself. Sam came around the desk and looked down on the pitch. The side were down there, sprawled on the grass.

Hunt got up and stood beside him. His exhaled smoke wafted into Sam's nostrils. "Odd way of training, you ask me."

"That's not training."

"You don't say."

"Excuse me." Sam started out. Carling was going to hear it. Oh, yes.

"Tyler."

"What?"

"Leave them. We're not finished yet. Let's talk about the side."

Sam returned, nodding. "Right. Well, we've agreed to keep Harker as goalkeeper on a permanent basis."

Hunt nodded. "Go on."

"Sanders and Ratcher, Carling and Skelton, myself, then June. Skittles..."

"I know the names of my men, Tyler. Get on with who you're putting on in Prokofiev's place."

"Right. Well, I'd like to put Smith in, since he works so well with Early. And, come to that, we need to discuss making Early a permanent part of the starting line up."

"Let's give him a bit longer."

"I'm sorry to be crass, Guv, but Keen's in a coma. He won't be in shape to play anytime soon, maybe not ever. And Early has proven himself as a worthy replacement."

"The man's not dead, Tyler. Give it some time, will you? He could pull through. He's a fighter."

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry. I just want to emphasize emphasise that we need to be prepared. What about Prokofiev? Is he coming back?"

"Probably make the next match. Going to see if he can come round and sit on the bench for this one."

"That would be good for morale."

"Might make him feel better is all. I know he's missing us."

"Yeah. Well, if that's all..."

"Yeah, go on."

"Thank you."

Sam hurried out before Hunt could stop him with anything else. He stopped by the locker room to change into his training kit and headed out to the pitch to have a word with Ray.

When the others saw him, they scrambled to their feet. "Right. Calisthenics. Spread out. Arms length from each other..." Sam shouted the directions as he came closer, and smiled to himself as they hopped into place. As his time here increased, so had his authority. Most of them did what he said now. Except for... "Ray? Is there a problem?"

"Cali tennis? That some kind of poncey United thing?" Ray said. He stood beside Sam on the pitch, looking at the rest of the team standing in the ordered formation and all wearing their training kits. Skelton still had his hands outstretched to demonstrate the distance between himself and Skittles, who stood beside him.

"Calisthenics," Sam said. "Aerobic exercise. Running and jumping. Don't tell me you haven't heard of it."

"Moving about so I'll have to put my fag down, you mean."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to hold onto it. Go on, _trainer_ , get your men in position and lead off."

Ray walked off, mumbling. Sam was certain he was heading for the showers, but as he reached the end of the pitch away from Sam, Ray stuck his arm in the air and the entire side moved towards him.

"Oi. Knees up, lads."

The team began an elaborate sort of dance, following Carling's lead. Sam squeezed his forehead. "Ray! Star jumps!" He demonstrated one, leaping in the air and extending arms and legs into an X, and bringing them together again, joining his hands over his head.

"You look like a spastic hailing a cab, boss," said Thom June.

"Just do it. And don't be rude, June."

"Sorry, boss."

Sam didn't have a read on Thom June yet. He hung about with Carling, but Sam was just as likely to find him with Harker, who was as level-headed a bloke as could be wanted. Sam supposed that proximity to Carling shouldn't cause him to pre-judge anyone to the negative. He hadn't figured out Carling's affection for Skelton as yet, but he figured it for a positive. Carling seemed to have a soft spot for the soft-headed. Possibly because he was as hard-headed as they came. June was a quiet one, focused to the point of obsession, both on and off the pitch, at least in training. Sam knew that during a match, men like that could become more...volatile.

Carling began leading the side in star jumps with his cigarette dangling from his lips. "Ray, if you swallow that thing, I'll have Early give you mouth to mouth."

Carling spat the cigarette out and crushed it under his foot. He took up position again and jumped, shouting, "The Boss is a ponce." The team echoed him, most looking over their shoulders with a mixture of embarrassment (Harker and Smith), confusion (Skelton), and glee (Ratcher and Sanders).

"Ha fricking ha," Sam muttered.

"He's raised in France," Ray finished on the land.

"Ray, that doesn't even rhyme," Sam said.

Carling shrugged as the team echoed him.

"Oi. Tyler. Get your sorry ass over here." Hunt was yelling at him from the cover of the exit entrance into the stadium.

"Right there," Sam shouted. He looked back at Carling. "Run a few laps when you're done there."

"I know how to do my job, boss."

"Of course you do." Sam ran towards Hunt. When he reached him, Hunt drew him inside.

"Found what I was looking for on my desk this morning."

"And you came all the way down to tell me? I'm flattered."

"Shut it, Tyler. We've got a problem."

"What is it?"

"Kim Trent's up to something. I want to know what he's planning to pull."

"Aren't most managers up to something? It's kind of how matches are won, isn't it?"

"Not like Trent. He's been man-marking the best players, putting his men on them so close they can't move, never mind get the ball. I won't have it, Sam."

"Man-marking is an accepted strategy, Guv."

Hunt held up a newspaper. "You see this report from their last match? Two of Liverpool's men sent off after Arsenal riled them up."

Sam grabbed the paper out of Hunt's waving hand. "So they've got a few players with temper management issues. What's that got to do with us? Oh." Aside from Harker and Skelton, all City had were players with temper management issues. "Right," Sam said.

Hunt grunted and snatched the paper back. "Their best men, one of whom had never gotten so much as a warning and now here he is, getting sent off. You're always banging on about preparedness. So. Prepare."

"Well, the first thing we need to do is figure out who the best player is. Because that's who Trent will target."

"That's easy—Keens."

"The best player who isn't currently in hospital."

"Oh."

"I assume you have the statistics saved from this season and last season?"

"Course."

"So, we'll just look at those and know. What?"

"Tyler, you're acting like they're in any kind of order."

"They're...not?"

"We're here to play football, Tyler, not run an accounting firm."

"Right. Yeah. Well, if you'll permit me, I'll start sorting through them."

"Have at it."

"May need some help."

"Take what you need."

"Thanks."

"Should I tell you now that it's going to be June, or do you want me to wait on that?"

"You know that by numbers or instinct?"

"Not even going to justify that with a...." He trailed off, though Sam couldn't tell if it was on purpose or distraction.

"An answer?"

"That's the word. Get me one by two p.m., Tyler, or I'll find another way."

"Such as?"

Hunt raised his fists. "Introducing Trent to my powerful friends here."

"I'll find it by two."

"If you knew Trent, you mightn't be in such a rush."

"Just point me towards the file room."

"Third floor, round the corner from the canteen. Look for the sign that says 'Broom Closet'."

"It's next to the broom cupboard?"

"You'll find it." Hunt was walking away. Sam started off for the third floor. He walked past the canteen. The woman who had told him to jump off the roof was there, putting out a metal dish of something. No, he reminded himself. She hadn't told him to do it. He'd inferred that himself. He remembered jumping, flying, and thinking that everything was going to be alright the moment he landed.

He never landed. He still felt like he was falling, just waiting for the ground to come up and smack him in the face. Gwen finally got the tray into place. Sam shook himself out of his daze and kept moving.

The file room was not next door to the broom cupboard. He tried a few doors and found a staff lounge, complete with two cleaners in uniform sitting on a settee with their feet up watching a soap on the television. They shushed him and said something in Polish . He apologised, in English, and left, quietly closing the door.

Finally, he tried the broom cupboard itself. And there he found the files. They were covered in dust, and more piled on top of the filing cabinets than inside them. He picked up one at random. It was from 1954. The one below it was from 1951. He moved further into the room and looked around to get a feel for the organization. Even chaos had an order. He repeated this to himself as his eyes came to rest on a 1970 file, placed next to a 1966. He snatched the 1966. His heart began racing. He picked it up as though touching the Holy Grail. 1966—he joined the thousands of England fans who couldn't say the date often enough and with a reverence not even used in church. 1966—the year England took the World Cup. He cleared off a spot on a chair that was shoved in a back corner and coated in dust. He sat down with the file. He had studied the game's strategy, but this was—he had never bothered to find an actual file associated with it. Sure, he knew this was not the real file for the English side, but it would tell him what the City players were doing while it was going on.

 

 

A team roster lay on the top. Gene Hunt, team captain, center forward. An asterisk next to his name denoting that he had played on the national side. Further down, Carling was there, no position given, as if they hadn't decided where to put him yet. He had an asterisk as well. Hunt—now that Sam thought about it, he remembered a Hunt on the 1966 winning side. He had scored. Had his name been Gene? He didn't think so... It had been awhile since he'd thought about the individual players. Carling, though—he was positive there was no Carling.

He jumped when a silhouette passed by the door. Sam slammed the file closed as if he had been caught looking at porn. Then he smiled. Here was help. He was at the door in one step, had it open, and hauled Skelton inside.

“You alright, boss?"

"Fine, Chris. Could use some help, though. Up for it?"

Skelton looked around the dark and dusty room and the towers of files, either not bothering to hide his rejection of the idea or unable to. Sam stretched to his feet. "I'll take that as a yes. Close the door."

Sighing, Chris obeyed.

"We're looking for stats on you lot. Need to know who the best of you is."

"Keens," said Chris.

"Who isn't in the hospital."

"Junie."

"That's what Hunt said, but I need to be sure."

"How are these going to tell us anything?" Chris picked up a file and gestured with it. "It's just numbers."

"Exactly."

Chris shook his head, clearly unconvinced. "I don't know, boss. When I play, it's just a feeling. Like, a thrust. I don't think my numbers will say much about what kind of player I am. Don't see how you can measure a football match anyway, so much happening between one goal and another, you know?"

"'There's a way, Chris. It's never a bad thing to look for it. So come on. Get started looking."

Sam put the 1966 folder down. Chris nosed forward for a look. "1966, Boss? You reading up on the Guv?"

"I may have seen him in here."

Chris smiled. "Yeah, I bet you did. Hard to miss. That was a good year for him."

"I think we should get started in here. Maybe we could put these into some kind of order, as well." Sam waved generally over the dusty stacks.

"Like what?"

"Like put them in the filing cabinets, for example."

Skelton wrinkled his nose. "Look, boss, I don't know if we should really be touching this stuff..."

"You really think that or do you just want to run off and play?"

"Ray's got the lads down the pub. I told him I'd join him..."

"You were on your way when I caught you?"

"Pretty much." Chris had the guilelessness to look ashamed. "You could come along if you wanted."

"It's alright. I know Ray doesn't like me very much."

"No, he..." Skelton suddenly took a deep interest in one of the files.

"Chris? It's o.k. Clashing personalities."

"He was supposed to be made assistant manager, is all. Then you come along and..."

"Well, if I'd had a choice in it, I wouldn't have. No offense."

"And it doesn't help you're not giving him the respect you ought to."

"He hasn't given me any reason for it, has he?"

"You're treating him like he can't play football." Chris was puffed up now, his eyes slightly dilated as he defended his friend.

"Well, he hasn't exactly shown that he can." Sam was slightly taken aback by Chris's passion.

"He was on the national side in '66. He don't need to prove anything more than that."

"I don't remember him being on the side. Did he play?"

"No. He was along as a substitute. Never went on. But he was there." This was said with a slight jutting of the chin, as if daring Sam to contradict him.

Sam gently removed the file from Skelton's hands. "A player always has to prove himself, Chris. If he wants to keep on playing, every match is a test. Ought to remember that."

Chris looked unconvinced. "Well, I bet you that you'll find some proof about Ray in these files, since you're so caught up on numbers."

He was close to pouting. Sam put his hand on the back of Chris's neck and squeezed gently. Skelton did not look at him. "I'm alright," he said. Sam stepped back. He hadn't noticed what he was doing when he touched Chris. He had had an affectionate relationship with his side in 2005. He didn't expect he'd be able to repeat it in this homophobic age where any touch seemed to be open to a million interpretations, but, Chris had returned to moving files and seemed unfazed. Sam considered the possibility that he’d brought the interpretations with him and was imposing them onto people here.

They worked in silence for awhile. Several times Sam had to stop himself from reading an interesting looking file from the wrong year. Skelton pulled a table in from the staff lounge, and they lined the files up in chronological order, stacked by decade. "Have you seen any from 1973? Or 1972?"

"They're in here somewhere, boss. Probably on the bottom."

"Why would they be on the bottom?"

"On account of when they fell. When we picked them back up, what was on the top went on the bottom."

"They...fell? When?" Sam stared at Chris, who shrugged.

"Few months ago. A bunch of us were playing footie in the hall there, and this door was one of the goals, and, well, ball came flying in and...it was kind of a domino effect."

Sam blinked. "Chris. You can play football on an actual pitch. Children grow up dreaming to play on a pitch like you've got, and you lot feel the need to play in the hall?"

Chris shrugged. "The Guv lets us."

"I'll bet he does." Sam stopped himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, despite a sudden, searing pain in his head that often struck him when he was encountered with extreme stupidity.

"They'll have left the pub by now, I reckon." Chris sounded wistful.

"Go on, Chris. I'll finish up here."

"You're sure, boss?"

"Yeah. Have one for me, will you?"

"Sure, boss!" Chris sprinted out, not giving Sam the chance to change his mind. He looked at the neat stacks on the table and sighed. More remained on top of the cabinets. Putting things into order. He was good at this. He enjoyed this. He picked up another file and started to move it to the table. Mark used to take the mick constantly about his talent for using accounting to relax. He would hang out in Sam's office for hours, making a nuisance of himself while Sam worked on one spreadsheet or another. Eventually, Sam would pretend to get sick of it and kick him out. Then Mark would either drag him out for a drink or he'd leave and turn up as Maya that night.

Sam didn't figure that anyone would be dragging him out tonight. 1973 was like a shroud hovering just over his head, threatening to smother him. And he had no idea why. He had the urge to scream, just to see what would happen. Instead, he faced the filing cabinet, grabbed hold of the handle on the top drawer, and kicked it. It made a dull, hollow sound. He kicked it again. And again. A dent began to form. He released the handle, stepped back, and laid into it. Over and over, only stopping when the files on top of the cabinet next to it, shaken by the vibration, toppled.

He stopped, and stared at them. Papers were spread across the floor.

"Shit." He dropped to his knees and started to gather them up, stuffing them into the folders that he thought they’d fallen out of. This was not good. Still, from what Chris said, they were probably in a jumble from falling before.

His eyes caught something as he started to stand. "1973". Finally. He pulled it out. It was Keens' file. A few moments later, which he spent pushing files aside on the floor, he came up with Carling's, Skelton's, and, at last, June's, as well as one on the side as a whole. He sat down with that one. It listed wages, among other things. June made more than Carling, despite being a junior player. Sam had suspected that Carling was past his prime, and this seemed to confirm that, but his main concern was determining who Trent might target. Here was the file saying that June was the best, and, worse, had a habit of letting his temper get the best of him on the pitch.

If Trent's ploy was to get a player tossed off for temper, June was a flint waiting to be struck. Sam closed his file and headed for Hunt's office.

"He in?" he asked the battle axe sitting at a desk in front of the door.

"No," she said, not looking up from whatever she was writing.

"I can see him." Sam pointed at the window, where Hunt was clearly visible through the blinds.

"Then why did you bother asking?"

"Phyllis..."

"What?"

"May I go in?"

"Suit yourself."

"Thank you."

Sam walked in. Gene didn't get up from the sofa. It was still strange to see such ugly furniture, but Sam supposed he would get used to it if he were stuck here long enough. Probably around the time he was able to go home... He dropped the file on the desk. "It's June."

"Think I told you that." There was no trace of gloating in Gene's tone, but his mouth held the smirk. "Could have saved yourself three hours of struggle if you'd listened to me in the first place."

"It’s always important to have evidence to back up a theory."

"Nothing theoretical about instinct, Sammy boy."

Sam shook his head. "Why aren't you down the pub with the others? Shouldn't you be knocking back a pint about now?"

"Went and came back. I'm serious about Trent, Tyler. I won't have him putting another of my side out, not when we've got two out as it is."

"You're positive he's planning something?"

Hunt sighed. He got up and moved around the desk. He perched on the corner of it and paused to take a drag from his cigarette. "You're new, but you've been around a few times, so I'm not sure what to make of this willful naiveté you seem so bent on exercising."

"Guv..." Sam was going to tell him that he wasn't naïve, just out of time.

Hunt waved his answer away. "When I say Trent is up to something, what I mean is, his strategy is going to be harmful to my players, and what is harmful to my players is harmful to the match, and what is harmful to the match, is harmful to me. Are you understanding?"

"Yes, Guv."

"Good." Hunt looked down at the file. "You find what you needed in there?"

"Just about. That room needs some serious organisation. If we could get someone in, just to put things in order..."

"Yeah, alright. Whatever you need." Hunt cut him off. He stood, went over and refreshed his drink.

"Guv? Are you o.k.?"

Hunt turned back to face him. "Keens is a pain in the arse, but he's a good lad, same for Tripper and Prokofiev. I won't have anyone going for Junie. You understand me?"

"Gene—it's not the same situation. No one's trying to kill him."

"No. No—it's just the worry talking. That's all. Go on home, Sam."

"Right. Don't stay too late, alright, Guv?"

"Missus likes me home at a reasonable hour. Don't worry about me."

"Alright." Sam left before Hunt could interpret the expression on his face as amazement. The Guv was married. Women really would put up with anything.

Back at his flat, Sam sat with the files in front of him on the bed. He knew Trent's strategy. That was a start. He had to use that to revise City's. He tore a page out of his notebook, wrote each of City's players on it, and tore it into pieces. He set them out in 4-3-2-1 formation with Skelton in the left-back position and Ratcher in the right-back. June went in at center-forward. June's was the one position he could not mess with, but Carling—he'd wanted to move him out of the back since he first saw him play. The man was a veritable bulldozer—he should be used to plow through the other side's defense, not to block the stringy-legged forwards they sent across the line. A few movements of the papers later, and he had Carling in the position of left winger with Ratcher taking his place in the back. This put Carling near June, so he could run interference between him and anyone Trent put against him.

Sam guessed that it would be Gordon Brick, who played centre-back for Arsenal. Sam didn't know anything about the guy, but the photo in the team roster showed someone who looked like he'd never heard a joke he found funny. He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing putting Carling in position of protection, given as Ray's temper was far from pristine, but it was the best he could do, and something Chris had said had convinced him to give Carling a chance at it. If he was as good a player as he seemed to think he was, then Carling should be up to the challenge. Sam put himself in the role of center back, though he had the feeling that Hunt would have some changes to make when he presented the line up to him in the morning. He had moved things around more than they were accustomed to, but there was another day before the match. Plenty of time for people to get accustomed to their new roles.

_Aren't you going to come play ball?_

Sam forced his eyes open. The strategy sheets were spread across his lap, exactly as he had left them when he fell asleep. He lifted his head enough to look at the television. What he wouldn't give for a remote. He stared at it. It was off.

_Don't be lonely, Sam. You can make friends playing ball._

He snapped his head in the direction of the voice. He could just make out a small form standing in the shadow beside the arm chair. He sat up as the bed groaned in protest at the sudden movement.

"Who are you?"

The form moved, coming partially out of shadow to reveal a glimpse of short, blond hair and an elbow, with a football tucked beneath it.

"Are you a neighbour? Are you lost?" He peered into the darkness, trying to see. "I can help you..."

_I'm your only friend. And I'm waiting for you to come play with me._

The ball dropped and bounced slowly towards him. Sam watched with increasing terror. It hit the wall directly below where Sam gripped the bed. As it bounced up and struck his hand, a gasp was wrenched from his throat.

He sat up in bed, soaked in sweat. The strategy notes were strewn across his lap, exactly as he left them when he fell asleep. He got out of bed cautiously, checking underneath it for the ball. Nothing. It had been a dream. He tried to tell himself that this was reassuring. Of all the skills that Sam had taken with him into this place, lying wasn't one of them. He settled for getting dressed and getting out as fast as he could, leaving his dreams and nightmares behind the closed door.

Gene didn't have as much of a problem with the new formation as Sam expected. He looked over Sam's charts with a blank expression, as though he were interpreting a child's drawing. "Better talk to Carling," he said, finally.

"Everyone keeps saying that. Why are you all so concerned about Carling? He's a member of the side—he should do what his manager tells him to do."

"He will, but you need to remember—you're coming in on foreign turf, Tyler. Don't go waving your dick around."

"Wouldn't want to get in your way, Guv."

Hunt's mouth curled slightly. "Arsenal is coming in tonight. Be ready, Tyler."

"I am, Guv."

"Oh, and Tyler?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you on left forward. Not center back."

"Guv—that's not my position."

"And now you know how Carling's going to feel." Hunt sat down at his desk, effectively ending the conversation.

Sam found Carling on the pitch along with the other lads. "Lads, I've made some changes to the usual formation. Gather round, please." He spread out the paper on the ground. "Chris, would you mind holding that down?" Skelton knelt above it and held the corners with his fists. "Now, this is just to show you what I have in mind. We'll discuss it further in our strategy meeting this afternoon. But I didn't want to lay any surprises on you when we need to be focused on preparing for the match. So, consider this a head's up. Harker, you're on goal."

"No surprise there," Sanders said. Ratcher elbowed him, and they grinned at each other. Sam ignored them.

"Ratcher, you'll be right-back."

"Am I going somewhere, boss?"

"Very funny."

Ratcher grinned. "Give us a fag, Ray."

Ray shoved Harker at Ratcher. "Enjoy him."

"Oi." Harker shoved back. Ray smiled and held a cigarette out to him. Harker accepted. He turned and offered it to Ratcher.

"Cheers, Harker."

"Welcome."

"Gentlemen—if we could get back to business?" Sam tapped the paper. "Carling, you'll be playing left wing.

"I'm a fullback," Carling said.

"I know. Usually. But for this match, you're a winger. An inside winger. Think you can handle that?" Sam said. "For the side?"

Carling inhaled his cigarette.

"I know it's outside your comfort zone. If you don't think you can play on offense..."

"'Don't go trying any of that psychosis shit with me."

"I just think that you'd be worth giving it a shot."

Carling shrugged. "Played offense when I was a lad, before I got big, like."

Sam nodded. "It's time to give it another try. What do you say?"

"You're the boss." He tossed his cigarette forward. It lay on the pitch, smoldering. "Whatever you say." He walked off, stepping on the discarded butt as he went.

Sam faced the others.

"You didn't picture that going any differently, did you?" June said.

"No." He had, actually, imagined a few punches being thrown.

"You know if we lose this match, the Guv will put you in a coma."

"What a change that would be." Sam bent down and picked up the cigarette butt.

He walked it to a rubbish bin. As he walked away, the bin began to smolder. Fortunately, the Manchester drizzle was there to make short work of putting it out.

At City of Manchester stadium, his office had been on the top level, and when he looked out he could see down onto the pitch and all the crowds, and past it, he could see the city itself. At night, when it rained—always raining—the lights from the traffic going round the Mancunian Way cast a blur of illuminated rainbow in the distance.

At Maine Road, he didn't have an office so much as a closet. It was on the third level and smelled like paint thinner. In his first week he had been interrupted more than once by a surprised but apologetic handyman. The desk was crammed in—he had the choice of either squeezing between it and the wall to get around to the chair or climbing over it. He had the 1970 version of a computer—a blackboard pinned up on the wall. The eraser was so old it left a film behind every time he used it. Still, he forced himself to spend time in it and to feel like he was working, keeping his management skills alive. It wouldn't do to wake up and be off his game.

Harker was waiting for him, sitting in the chair that Sam had placed outside for visitors, and looking as if he'd been sent to the headmaster's office.

"Alright, Harker?" Sam said. He held the door and gestured him in. Once inside, they quickly realized that there was no second chair, so Sam went out again, grabbed the one from the hall, and brought it in. There was no room for the door to close.

"Think you're being too hard on Ray."

"You're here to talk about Carling? Forgive me, Jonathan, but you don't strike me as the prime choice for being his advocate. Not exactly bosom buddies, are you?"

Harker shrugged. "He's not half bad if you give him a chance."

"I'm not being hard on him. I'm asking him to challenge himself. Be a team player."

Harker didn't have anything to say to that.

"Did the other lads put you up to this?"

This got a reaction—anger. "Don't need anyone putting me up to anything."

"I know." Sam wondered about Harker's background. Sam had heard Harker was hard, but so far nothing he'd done had made Sam believe this—not in the way he acted or the way he was treated. But here, it was just a flash, but it was something.

"Might be more to you than we think, Harker." It sounded like something Hunt would say. The idea didn't entirely put Sam off. Entirely. The Guv had his merits, when applied appropriately. He found himself smiling a little.

Harker took it to be directed at him. He gave a small smile in return.

"Don't worry about Carling. I know what I'm doing."

"Sure hope so." Harker was up now, dragging the chair out. It screeched on the floor. "See you, boss."

"See you, Harker."

Sam followed him to the door and stuck a hand out in farewell as he rounded the corner. Harker responded in kind. As Sam turned to go into his office again, a blur of movement caught his eye. He spun to catch it again, but it was gone. He ran down to the stairwell. Nothing, not even a swinging door. He went back to the blackboard and started working out strategies, and tried to tell himself that he had not just seen the blond head of a child zipping around the opposite end of the hall from where Harker had gone.

It didn't make sense, Harker coming in to talk about Carling. As far as Sam could tell, there was no great love between them. They didn't share the rough and tumble relationship that Carling had with Ratcher and Sanders, and the gentle affection Carling displayed around Skelton—well, that was exclusive to Skelton. If he had to list the players he expected to come talk to him about Carling, Harker would have been dead last. No, he hadn't come to talk about that. Sam didn't pause from mapping out players with x's and o's as he tried to figure out what Harker was doing. Being in motion helped him think. But, when he stepped back from the board, he saw that his hand had been doing some thinking, too.

If he drew a line from x to x and o to o, it spelled Mark. He grabbed the eraser and scrubbed him off the board. But he could still make out the lines..

He would give his left foot for a player like Mark right about now. Someone versatile and intelligent on the pitch, who could make decisions on a dime, and was able to anticipate his opponents' movements and react accordingly.

He trotted towards the gents, telling himself that was the only reason for wanting Mark there. It was for the good of the game, and not for all those other reasons that had nothing to do with it. The comfort of his friendship, even when Mark was driving him crazy with his obstinate refusal to put the game first, to think of the impact his actions outside the pitch would have on his playing. All his life, Sam had wanted a mate like Mark. He shut himself in the loo, turned the tap on, dunked his head under and gargled away his screams.

"You alright, boss?"

He pulled his head up to see Skelton coming out of one of the stalls. Skelton had stopped before exiting completely, and stood, looking confused. Sam rubbed his head, sending water droplets spraying.

"Sorry, Chris, I'm fine."

"Oh." Skelton nodded hesitantly. He moved toward the sink in the corner, keeping a distance between himself and Sam. Sam gritted his teeth.

"I've lost a friend recently, Chris. I'm having trouble processing it is all. I didn't mean for you to see that."

"Oh." Skelton turned the water on and began washing his hands.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about it." Sam focused on Chris's hand as it turned the tap off and the squeaking that came with the rotating metal.

"Don't worry. I won't tell." Chris looked up. Sam nodded.

"Thank you. You want to come to my office for a minute?"

Instantly, Skelton was on guard. "Not for organising?"

"No. Something else." Sam moved into the hall. He heard Skelton following.

In his office, Sam pushed the chair aside to make room for Chris. "What are you doing?" Skelton leaned into the office and gestured at the board. Sam leaned back to give him a better view.

"Just sketching out some plays. We have to work on our strategy."

"Our strategy's alright." Skelton came in and sat down.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"What is it?" Skelton echoed.

"Uh huh."

"Well, you know—win." He gestured vaguely.

"Your strategy is to win?" Sam repeated slowly.

"Yeah."

"And how do you do that?"

"Run faster and keep the ball more."

"And kick it a bit?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

Sam sighed. "I'm talking about formation, about emphasising your strengths and exposing your opponents' weaknesses. There’s more to football than just running fast and keeping the ball." Sam tapped the blackboard with the chalk.

Chris shrugged. "I don't know boss—there's not much more to it from where I stand."

"If we go down to ten men tomorrow, what do you think the side should do to compensate?"

"You're asking me?"

"I am."

"I don't know."

Sam handed him the chalk. "Think it out." He pointed at the board. This is tomorrow's formation. Let's say...this guy..." He crossed off the mark in the center that represented June..."gets knocked out for some reason. What happens next?"

"I don't know, boss." Chris gave an awkward smile. He was fidgeting towards the door, clearly waiting for a signal that he was released.

"Chris, it's my job to know. To always have a back up plan in mind. And that's what I'm doing. Sketching out all the possible scenarios for what to do if any of these players are taken out."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

"I'd never get a red card, boss." He drew himself up a bit.

"Yeah, you seem like an easy going guy, Chris."

"It's not that—it's just that I usually don't know someone's riling me up until the moment's passed and then I can't do anything about it. But it's alright."

"You've got Ray to get riled up for you." The truth hit then. Chris and Ray, the yin and yang to each other.

"Yeah. Exactly." Chris stopped and shook his head abruptly. "No—I mean I don't mind. Say, boss---"

"If you're going to tell me to put Carling back on defense, I don't want to hear it. He stays where I've put him."

"No, I was going to say I think he'll make a good forward."

"Really?"

"Well. If you think he will."

"Thank you, Chris. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome, boss." Chris started to get up. He moved closer to the board and stared at it as if he expected the X's to start moving. Finally, he shook his head. "All Greek to me."

"You'll get it some day, Chris. Just takes some thinking."

"Never been great at that. See you, boss."

"See you, Chris."

Chris was young and inexperienced, except Sam believed that what you saw was not necessarily what you got with Skelton. He suspected a complexity beneath the floppy hair and Labradorish demeanor. Perhaps the boy was hiding an intellect in there somewhere, way down under the complex of being taken for granted and pushed around, and Sam intended to find it. If he didn't, at least he'd have one person who didn't second guess him every step he took and might, ultimately, help him find his way home.

Sam picked up the eraser again. That was just crazy. No one could help get home. Some things, you just had to do for yourself.

Arsenal arrived a little past three in the afternoon. Their bus pulled into the lot, farting its arrival in exhaust spurts. Hunt and Sam stood out, ready to greet them.

"Going above and beyond, Sammy," Gene grumbled as the first players emerged from the bus, looking as if they had just awoken from a nap.

"It's important to show hospitality in any situation, Guv. We can kick their arses tomorrow."

"We'd damn well better." The players drew near.

"Welcome," Sam said. "Anything you need, just let the staff know."

"It's not a bloody hotel," Hunt said. He glared at a player who offered his hand. The player backed away, huddled behind a larger man, who made no effort to acknowledge Sam or Gene. "That's Freddy Wilson," Gene said, just quiet enough for only Sam to hear. "You'll want to watch him. And that one, there." He nodded at the final player emerging from the bus.

"Gordon Brick," Sam said. He recognised the humourless face from the photo. "Looks just as charming in person."

"Tyler, just breathing the same air as Brick can make a gregarious man such as myself as dull as a church wife giving a knitting lecture."

"Hello, Mr. Hunt." Brick came towards him, and clapped Gene on both shoulders. His grin was wide and leering. Before Sam could finish shouting 'Guv!', Brick was on his ass on the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam said. He started forward to help Brick up, but Hunt held him back. "He was abusing my hospitality."

"What? By saying hello?"

"Exactly." With that, he turned, and marched Sam inside.

"Where are we going?"

"Beer o'clock, Sammy. Time to concentrate on important things."

"Right. Priorities." Sam rolled his eyes behind Gene's back.

"I heard that, Sam."

Sam didn't try disguising his sigh.

"Don't you think we should be concentrating on the match tomorrow? Not on you getting your alcoholic fix in?"

"Why not do both?" Gene waited until Sam caught up to him, and then grabbed his arm and steered him towards the staff car park. Sam got into the Cortina and buckled himself in quickly, knowing that every moment the car was in motion, was a moment when he could be killed.

"Arsenal doesn't seem like such a rough group, aside from Brick and Wilson."

"Oh, but the things they can do. Sweet talkers."

"How do you mean?"

"They know how to get in your head, right where you don't want them." He glanced at Sam as he swerved the car to avoid a young woman. "Could be a disaster if they got in yours."

"Don't worry, they'll have a lot of company."

"I'm going to choose to ignore that."

"Thank you."

They arrived at the pub. Half the side was already there, gathered around a few tables. "Chris. It's your round," Hunt said.

Skelton sighed and trudged to the bar. Sam followed him up. "Chris?"

"This is my third round in a row. Harker's newer than me..."

"Harker grew up rough, mon," Nelson said. "You didn't."

Chris sniffed. "Just because I had an education..."

"You were proper schooled, Chris?" Sam said.

"Didn't sink in, though," Chris said. "Excuse me." He picked up the tray that Nelson had prepared and carried it back to the table.

"He don't like talking about it," Nelson said. "His daddy was a barrister."

Sam turned and watched Chris as he received joking pats on the back of his head. "Really."

"So they say. How are you my friend?"

"Well, I think we're going to lose another player tomorrow, possibly due to foul play, or anger mismanagement, but otherwise, I'm fine."

"So long as it's all sunshine and roses."

"Always is in 1973, isn't it?"

"You'd better hope so." Nelson's smile seemed more telling than cheerful. Sam shook off the uncomfortable feeling. and went over to the table with the others. He raised a glass off Skelton's tray. The beer flowed cool and smooth down his throat. A phone on the end of the bar began to ring.

"Nelson?" Sam looked around for him, and saw him on the other end of the bar, his hands full and a line of punters waiting for him. He set a glass down and started pulling a pint for a man in a paisley shirt. "Guess I'll get it myself," Sam said to no one. He picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Sam? I don't know if you can hear me..."

He straightened his back and pressed the receiver tighter to his ear. "Anders? I hear you. I'm here." He didn't know why he was whispering. His heart was beating so quickly, that he couldn't believe he wasn't shouting. He held the receiver with both hands.

"I...just wanted to say we're all pulling for you, mate. Jesper has us all wearing red arm bands. He says it's your favorite color. Thought it was purple, myself. No offense. It's giving the fans a bit of an identity crisis, if I'm honest."

Sam could feel his eyes pricking with tears. He blinked them back.

"He's asked me to take over for you. Picture me as a manager? Yeah." There was a soft coughing as Anders cleared his throat. "It's just until you're well. Come on back to us, Sam. Everyone's worried about you. I'm squeezing your hand. Don't know if you can feel it."

Sam looked released his right hand and flexed it. Nothing. He tried his left. Not even the shadow of a feeling.

"I have to tell you something about Mark, Sam."

"What is it?" Both hands were on the receiver again, and Sam hunched over the phone.

"But I can't talk right now. Visiting hours are ending. Next time, I promise. The others will come see you. And your mum, she's here all the time. Don't worry. We're taking care of her. You just concentrate on getting well. I'll see you later, Sam."

"Wait. What about Mark? Don't go. Please. Don't leave me here..." He was up on his knees on the stool,bent over the bar, rocking towards it. Desperation chilled him. The phone answered with a dial tone that sounded like death to him. "Anders? Hello?" Sam pressed the cut off and released it. Nothing. He hung the phone up. "I'm here," he said, looking up and letting the words carry where they would. Conversation carried on around him, as if nothing was wrong. He glanced down the bar and saw that Nelson was still tending to the man in the paisley shirt.

"I can see you're here, mate, now get out me way, you're blocking my chair."

Sam turned to see a punter glaring at him with a half-amused expression on his face.

"Sorry." Sam shifted.

Finally, he gathered himself, took a few deep breaths, and picked up his beer. He scrubbed his face clear of any stray tears, and went over to where the team was crowded around one of the tables. He edged in beside Skittles, who made room for him without comment.

"Been to see him yesterday, he's doing all right," Sanders was saying.

"Oh, aye, he'll be up and about before you know it," Carling said.

"Are you talking about Keens?" Sam asked. "How is he?"

"Doing o.k." said Skelton. "You ought to go see him, boss."

"I doubt he'll want to see me."

"You scared to see him?" Carling said. He was sitting beside Hunt, who had three empty pint glasses lined up in front of himself. He was working on a fourth, and since Carling had no glass in front of him, Sam suspected that it was in Hunt's hand.

"No." Sam could face up to blame, and he knew he probably should go and let Keens have it out with him for forcing him to carry on training. A decision which may have had something to do with his ultimately going into a coma... "I'm not scared. I'll go see him in the morning before training."

"Good." Carling nodded, and Sam realized this was the first thing he had ever done that Carling had approved of. He decided to leave while he was ahead, so he finished his beer, and left for the night, after suggesting that the others do the same in light of the training they were under. He left, having a strong idea that his advice was already forgotten. He got confirmation when he heard Hunt order Skelton to get another round. He paused, debating heading back in to tell them to ease up, but then a gust of wind caught the door and literally hit him in the ass, giving him the push he needed to get outside.

At his flat, he unplugged the television before he went to bed and moved the chair in front of the door. However that boy had gotten in before, Sam wasn't leaving any further opportunities. The kid could go creep out someone in another flat. When he slept, he dreamt about his first time playing for Man City on the Premier League side. Dreams were good for rewriting the truth, so instead of suffering the indignity of having the ball pass between his legs by McCarthy on the Arsenal side of 2005, who completed the nugget by picking it up at the back of him, Sam caught the ball and ran, circled around three, four, five defenders, never once passing, never once wondering why they had the faces of his mum and Auntie Heather and Dylan Rochester, a boy he had bunked with during youth training.

When he got to the goal, he readied for the shot. As he kicked, he felt the perfection of movement, the synchronicity of wind, physics, and time. This was the shot he had fantasised about making in those days and moments leading up to his debut. The shot that would make his legend—back when he still believed he could be a legend on the pitch. It was the shot that never happened; even though he scored enough to make his club happy, the feeling was never right. It was missing something—joy, perhaps, or... He took the kick.

His sleeping countenance opened into a smile. This was it, that feeling he always knew existed. It was only a matter of finding it. Here it was... He watched, his breath caught in his throat as the ball sailed towards the goal. It dropped, dropped, dropped, and he flew. The crowd screamed his name and stomped their feet. Then, silence. He had closed his eyes, in the dream, to keep the perfect feeling enclosed within him. With the silence, he opened them. There, in front of him, the goalie held the ball in his gloved hands.

"Sorry, Tyler," he said. He flung the ball back onto the pitch. Sam did not move. He stared at the goalie and replayed his motions in his mind. Tried to remember all the times he had looked at the goalie, checking his position as he neared the goal. It wasn't the same goalie now as it had been when Sam had first gained possession. He was certain of that, and more certain the longer the man stared him down.

Sam did not waver. Play went on around him. The ball passed through him. And Sam went on staring at Gene Hunt, who, despite not moving either, was still managing to block every shot that came his way simply by shifting his eyes towards it and glaring. Hunt threw his gloves down and walked towards him, leaving the penalty box empty. A ball flew towards it and disappeared. Then another and another. Hunt passed Sam, close enough to graze him, but Sam felt nothing. He inhaled, and his nostrils filled with the scent of chocolate and cinnamon. The smell seemed to come from Hunt.

Sam blinked, trying to find a reason for Hunt to smell like this and not the whiskey and smoke that coated him in life. He blinked again and was in an ice cream shop with an old fashioned fizzy drink in front of him in a tall glass loaded down with ice cream and a cherry. He closed his lips around the orange bendy straw and crossed his eyes to watch the fizzy liquid edge its way upwards. His mouth filled with anticipatory saliva. Then--"Sammy!"--a hand yanked him from his chair and dragged him away. He didn't turn to see who it was—he knew—he only watched sadly as his ice cream became more and more out of reach and wondered why he was suddenly too short to open a car door on his own. Before he could think about it too much, two hands grabbed him under his arms, and he was hauled into the passenger seat. He sat still as the seatbelt was locked over him. He pulled his foot into his lap and polished up the gold buckle with his sleeve as the man got into the driver's seat. Then he looked over at the large man beside him. He couldn't see his face, but he didn't need to.

"Where are we going?" He chirped in a voice that was not his. The man tossed a candy into Sam's lap. An answer came, but Sam couldn't make it out. The sound comforted him, though, and he sucked on his candy and thought about how nice it would be to have a gold car like this one day. Especially if he could drive fast.

He woke up on the floor. He had somehow hooked the sheet around his foot and dragged it down with him. He untangled himself and tossed it back on the bed. He glanced at the television. It was off. Good. From what little he remembered of appliances when he was four, he had a good idea that if they’d turned on and off by themselves, it would have stuck with him. He went into the bathroom, showered, and shaved. He planned to go see Keens before he went into work.

The hospital was the same one where Mark had been, or would be, he corrected himself., Driving there filled him with a disquietude and deja vu which did not abate as he walked down the halls and soon found himself standing in Mark's room, once again looking down at a dark haired man with a tube running out of his arm and into an I.V. Only this man was awake. Sam hovered at the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. "Suppose you think I owe you a thanks," Keens said. He shifted a little to a half-sitting position.

"For what? Making you carry on training so you'd have convulsions and almost die?" Sam said.

"You got Kramer, didn't you? Before he could get me again. They're saying he went back for Tripper."

"I hadn't heard that." Sam wondered just what Hunt had told the police.

"Well. Thanks anyway." Keens leaned towards him. "You understand that if you tell anyone I've said that, I'll deny it, and then I'll have you eating your teeth."

"It's good to know that some people still give gratitude its due, Keens."

"Isn't it?" Keens smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

"You'll be back with us before you know it," Sam said. He patted Keens's foot, but quickly took his hand away when Keens looked at him. It wasn't disgust in his expression, not exactly, but... Better off not touching, Sam decided.

"Don't think so."

"You'll be fighting fit soon enough."

"I'm not sure I want to come back."

"You're not transferring?"

"There are more important things than football."

"Such as?"

Now Keens grinned for real. "You're having me on. I know you aren't passionate about the game. You can't wait to be rid of it, for some reason. What's your secret, Tyler?"

Sam looked at the ceiling.

"Not going to find it there."

"I'm running out of places to look."

"Sorry. Can't help you." Keens dropped his head on the pillow as if the conversation had taken all he had out of him. "You won't tell anyone that I'm not sure about coming back?"

"If that's what you want."

"Thank you."

Sam watched for a moment as, Keen’s eyes drifted shut. The machine next to the bed kept up a reassuring beeping. He gathered his coat up and started out. The door slammed shut behind him. He jumped. A bit of wind pressure, he reassured himself. He continued down the hall, and another door slammed, again just behind him. The lights began going out. Sam's heart pounded. He clapped his hands over his ears and fought the urge to howl. He began running, fast as he could, feet pounding in time with his heart, staying just ahead of the slamming doors. Then, as he reached the last, it slammed in front of him. He smashed into it, and the force knocked him backwards. All the oxygen seemed to exit his body leaving him gasping for nothing, cold, empty, useless air insufficient to fill his lungs and stop the squealing in his head. He dragged himself to his feet and stared out the sliver of a window on the immobile door.

"Help. Help." He pounded the window, but no one came. He yelled until he lost the ability to form words. Tears streaked his cheeks, but these did not exist for him either. His chest constricted and he felt as if his insides were collapsing. He struggled to stay upright, to hold on—this was not the definitive leap he had needed to take, he knew instinctively that this was death, pure and simple. He had no sense of time or practicality—only crushing pain. He spent his last breath on a scream, and fell. 

[On to part 2](http://amproof.livejournal.com/362954.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Life on Mars. With football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: Soccer AU; Episode 2: Arsenal 1/2  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 18597 overall, in 2 parts.  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

[Episode 1: Newcastle United](http://amproof.livejournal.com/tag/episode1:newcastle+united)

"Looked like Sam was a goner for a minute there, Tom."

"Too right, Ed. The boy fair near flatlined."

"He'll definitely have to show more care in the future towards avoiding those...I don't even know what to call what he did. Jumping without a net..."

Sam twitched in his sleep.

"I think 'idiotic leap' is a fair term."

"Sure. I'll go with that. Idiotic leap."

He opened his eyes. The glow from the television lit up the ceiling in shadows. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and dragged himself towards it.

"But, he looks to be back and fighting fit today, and not a moment too soon, either, as City are up against Arsenal this week. They’re are a formidable team and nobody wants to be anything other than 100% when they face them.

"Couldn't have said it better meself, Tom."

"I'm starting to dislike you guys," Sam said. He waited to see if they would answer back. They didn't. He pushed a button, and the television screen closed down to a centric dot of light which slowly disappeared.

First order of the day was a strategy meeting with Hunt. Sam stood in front of Hunt's desk, stifling a yawn in his coat sleeve as Hunt shuffled papers on his desk.

"Looking for anything in particular, Guv?"

"Know it when I find it."

Evidently, he did not find it because after a moment, he gave up and leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.

"So. Talk."

Sam nodded. Updates he could do. "As you know, we're meeting Arsenal in three days. I have the men training six hours today and tomorrow and I'd like to add two hours the day of the match."

"The day of the match?"

"Yes."

"You trying to kill them?"

"Trying to get them into shape. Trust me, Guv."

"Fine. But don't go putting any of them into a coma."

"Yes, Guv."

"I've restructured the training sessions to focus mainly on relearning the basics. Not all the men are happy about it, but I've been seeing improvement all around, especially from Skelton."

"Good. And Carling?"

"What about him?"

"What have you got him doing?"

"He's leading the training session while I'm here with you."

Hunt smiled.

"What?"

"Have a look." He gestured towards the window behind himself. Sam came around the desk and looked down on the pitch. The side were down there, sprawled on the grass.

Hunt got up and stood beside him. His exhaled smoke wafted into Sam's nostrils. "Odd way of training, you ask me."

"That's not training."

"You don't say."

"Excuse me." Sam started out. Carling was going to hear it. Oh, yes.

"Tyler."

"What?"

"Leave them. We're not finished yet. Let's talk about the side."

Sam returned, nodding. "Right. Well, we've agreed to keep Harker as goalkeeper on a permanent basis."

Hunt nodded. "Go on."

"Sanders and Ratcher, Carling and Skelton, myself, then June. Skittles..."

"I know the names of my men, Tyler. Get on with who you're putting on in Prokofiev's place."

"Right. Well, I'd like to put Smith in, since he works so well with Early. And, come to that, we need to discuss making Early a permanent part of the starting line up."

"Let's give him a bit longer."

"I'm sorry to be crass, Guv, but Keen's in a coma. He won't be in shape to play anytime soon, maybe not ever. And Early has proven himself as a worthy replacement."

"The man's not dead, Tyler. Give it some time, will you? He could pull through. He's a fighter."

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry. I just want to emphasize emphasise that we need to be prepared. What about Prokofiev? Is he coming back?"

"Probably make the next match. Going to see if he can come round and sit on the bench for this one."

"That would be good for morale."

"Might make him feel better is all. I know he's missing us."

"Yeah. Well, if that's all..."

"Yeah, go on."

"Thank you."

Sam hurried out before Hunt could stop him with anything else. He stopped by the locker room to change into his training kit and headed out to the pitch to have a word with Ray.

When the others saw him, they scrambled to their feet. "Right. Calisthenics. Spread out. Arms length from each other..." Sam shouted the directions as he came closer, and smiled to himself as they hopped into place. As his time here increased, so had his authority. Most of them did what he said now. Except for... "Ray? Is there a problem?"

"Cali tennis? That some kind of poncey United thing?" Ray said. He stood beside Sam on the pitch, looking at the rest of the team standing in the ordered formation and all wearing their training kits. Skelton still had his hands outstretched to demonstrate the distance between himself and Skittles, who stood beside him.

"Calisthenics," Sam said. "Aerobic exercise. Running and jumping. Don't tell me you haven't heard of it."

"Moving about so I'll have to put my fag down, you mean."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to hold onto it. Go on, _trainer_ , get your men in position and lead off."

Ray walked off, mumbling. Sam was certain he was heading for the showers, but as he reached the end of the pitch away from Sam, Ray stuck his arm in the air and the entire side moved towards him.

"Oi. Knees up, lads."

The team began an elaborate sort of dance, following Carling's lead. Sam squeezed his forehead. "Ray! Star jumps!" He demonstrated one, leaping in the air and extending arms and legs into an X, and bringing them together again, joining his hands over his head.

"You look like a spastic hailing a cab, boss," said Thom June.

"Just do it. And don't be rude, June."

"Sorry, boss."

Sam didn't have a read on Thom June yet. He hung about with Carling, but Sam was just as likely to find him with Harker, who was as level-headed a bloke as could be wanted. Sam supposed that proximity to Carling shouldn't cause him to pre-judge anyone to the negative. He hadn't figured out Carling's affection for Skelton as yet, but he figured it for a positive. Carling seemed to have a soft spot for the soft-headed. Possibly because he was as hard-headed as they came. June was a quiet one, focused to the point of obsession, both on and off the pitch, at least in training. Sam knew that during a match, men like that could become more...volatile.

Carling began leading the side in star jumps with his cigarette dangling from his lips. "Ray, if you swallow that thing, I'll have Early give you mouth to mouth."

Carling spat the cigarette out and crushed it under his foot. He took up position again and jumped, shouting, "The Boss is a ponce." The team echoed him, most looking over their shoulders with a mixture of embarrassment (Harker and Smith), confusion (Skelton), and glee (Ratcher and Sanders).

"Ha fricking ha," Sam muttered.

"He's raised in France," Ray finished on the land.

"Ray, that doesn't even rhyme," Sam said.

Carling shrugged as the team echoed him.

"Oi. Tyler. Get your sorry ass over here." Hunt was yelling at him from the cover of the exit entrance into the stadium.

"Right there," Sam shouted. He looked back at Carling. "Run a few laps when you're done there."

"I know how to do my job, boss."

"Of course you do." Sam ran towards Hunt. When he reached him, Hunt drew him inside.

"Found what I was looking for on my desk this morning."

"And you came all the way down to tell me? I'm flattered."

"Shut it, Tyler. We've got a problem."

"What is it?"

"Kim Trent's up to something. I want to know what he's planning to pull."

"Aren't most managers up to something? It's kind of how matches are won, isn't it?"

"Not like Trent. He's been man-marking the best players, putting his men on them so close they can't move, never mind get the ball. I won't have it, Sam."

"Man-marking is an accepted strategy, Guv."

Hunt held up a newspaper. "You see this report from their last match? Two of Liverpool's men sent off after Arsenal riled them up."

Sam grabbed the paper out of Hunt's waving hand. "So they've got a few players with temper management issues. What's that got to do with us? Oh." Aside from Harker and Skelton, all City had were players with temper management issues. "Right," Sam said.

Hunt grunted and snatched the paper back. "Their best men, one of whom had never gotten so much as a warning and now here he is, getting sent off. You're always banging on about preparedness. So. Prepare."

"Well, the first thing we need to do is figure out who the best player is. Because that's who Trent will target."

"That's easy—Keens."

"The best player who isn't currently in hospital."

"Oh."

"I assume you have the statistics saved from this season and last season?"

"Course."

"So, we'll just look at those and know. What?"

"Tyler, you're acting like they're in any kind of order."

"They're...not?"

"We're here to play football, Tyler, not run an accounting firm."

"Right. Yeah. Well, if you'll permit me, I'll start sorting through them."

"Have at it."

"May need some help."

"Take what you need."

"Thanks."

"Should I tell you now that it's going to be June, or do you want me to wait on that?"

"You know that by numbers or instinct?"

"Not even going to justify that with a...." He trailed off, though Sam couldn't tell if it was on purpose or distraction.

"An answer?"

"That's the word. Get me one by two p.m., Tyler, or I'll find another way."

"Such as?"

Hunt raised his fists. "Introducing Trent to my powerful friends here."

"I'll find it by two."

"If you knew Trent, you mightn't be in such a rush."

"Just point me towards the file room."

"Third floor, round the corner from the canteen. Look for the sign that says 'Broom Closet'."

"It's next to the broom cupboard?"

"You'll find it." Hunt was walking away. Sam started off for the third floor. He walked past the canteen. The woman who had told him to jump off the roof was there, putting out a metal dish of something. No, he reminded himself. She hadn't told him to do it. He'd inferred that himself. He remembered jumping, flying, and thinking that everything was going to be alright the moment he landed.

He never landed. He still felt like he was falling, just waiting for the ground to come up and smack him in the face. Gwen finally got the tray into place. Sam shook himself out of his daze and kept moving.

The file room was not next door to the broom cupboard. He tried a few doors and found a staff lounge, complete with two cleaners in uniform sitting on a settee with their feet up watching a soap on the television. They shushed him and said something in Polish . He apologised, in English, and left, quietly closing the door.

Finally, he tried the broom cupboard itself. And there he found the files. They were covered in dust, and more piled on top of the filing cabinets than inside them. He picked up one at random. It was from 1954. The one below it was from 1951. He moved further into the room and looked around to get a feel for the organization. Even chaos had an order. He repeated this to himself as his eyes came to rest on a 1970 file, placed next to a 1966. He snatched the 1966. His heart began racing. He picked it up as though touching the Holy Grail. 1966—he joined the thousands of England fans who couldn't say the date often enough and with a reverence not even used in church. 1966—the year England took the World Cup. He cleared off a spot on a chair that was shoved in a back corner and coated in dust. He sat down with the file. He had studied the game's strategy, but this was—he had never bothered to find an actual file associated with it. Sure, he knew this was not the real file for the English side, but it would tell him what the City players were doing while it was going on.

 

 

A team roster lay on the top. Gene Hunt, team captain, center forward. An asterisk next to his name denoting that he had played on the national side. Further down, Carling was there, no position given, as if they hadn't decided where to put him yet. He had an asterisk as well. Hunt—now that Sam thought about it, he remembered a Hunt on the 1966 winning side. He had scored. Had his name been Gene? He didn't think so... It had been awhile since he'd thought about the individual players. Carling, though—he was positive there was no Carling.

He jumped when a silhouette passed by the door. Sam slammed the file closed as if he had been caught looking at porn. Then he smiled. Here was help. He was at the door in one step, had it open, and hauled Skelton inside.

“You alright, boss?"

"Fine, Chris. Could use some help, though. Up for it?"

Skelton looked around the dark and dusty room and the towers of files, either not bothering to hide his rejection of the idea or unable to. Sam stretched to his feet. "I'll take that as a yes. Close the door."

Sighing, Chris obeyed.

"We're looking for stats on you lot. Need to know who the best of you is."

"Keens," said Chris.

"Who isn't in the hospital."

"Junie."

"That's what Hunt said, but I need to be sure."

"How are these going to tell us anything?" Chris picked up a file and gestured with it. "It's just numbers."

"Exactly."

Chris shook his head, clearly unconvinced. "I don't know, boss. When I play, it's just a feeling. Like, a thrust. I don't think my numbers will say much about what kind of player I am. Don't see how you can measure a football match anyway, so much happening between one goal and another, you know?"

"'There's a way, Chris. It's never a bad thing to look for it. So come on. Get started looking."

Sam put the 1966 folder down. Chris nosed forward for a look. "1966, Boss? You reading up on the Guv?"

"I may have seen him in here."

Chris smiled. "Yeah, I bet you did. Hard to miss. That was a good year for him."

"I think we should get started in here. Maybe we could put these into some kind of order, as well." Sam waved generally over the dusty stacks.

"Like what?"

"Like put them in the filing cabinets, for example."

Skelton wrinkled his nose. "Look, boss, I don't know if we should really be touching this stuff..."

"You really think that or do you just want to run off and play?"

"Ray's got the lads down the pub. I told him I'd join him..."

"You were on your way when I caught you?"

"Pretty much." Chris had the guilelessness to look ashamed. "You could come along if you wanted."

"It's alright. I know Ray doesn't like me very much."

"No, he..." Skelton suddenly took a deep interest in one of the files.

"Chris? It's o.k. Clashing personalities."

"He was supposed to be made assistant manager, is all. Then you come along and..."

"Well, if I'd had a choice in it, I wouldn't have. No offense."

"And it doesn't help you're not giving him the respect you ought to."

"He hasn't given me any reason for it, has he?"

"You're treating him like he can't play football." Chris was puffed up now, his eyes slightly dilated as he defended his friend.

"Well, he hasn't exactly shown that he can." Sam was slightly taken aback by Chris's passion.

"He was on the national side in '66. He don't need to prove anything more than that."

"I don't remember him being on the side. Did he play?"

"No. He was along as a substitute. Never went on. But he was there." This was said with a slight jutting of the chin, as if daring Sam to contradict him.

Sam gently removed the file from Skelton's hands. "A player always has to prove himself, Chris. If he wants to keep on playing, every match is a test. Ought to remember that."

Chris looked unconvinced. "Well, I bet you that you'll find some proof about Ray in these files, since you're so caught up on numbers."

He was close to pouting. Sam put his hand on the back of Chris's neck and squeezed gently. Skelton did not look at him. "I'm alright," he said. Sam stepped back. He hadn't noticed what he was doing when he touched Chris. He had had an affectionate relationship with his side in 2005. He didn't expect he'd be able to repeat it in this homophobic age where any touch seemed to be open to a million interpretations, but, Chris had returned to moving files and seemed unfazed. Sam considered the possibility that he’d brought the interpretations with him and was imposing them onto people here.

They worked in silence for awhile. Several times Sam had to stop himself from reading an interesting looking file from the wrong year. Skelton pulled a table in from the staff lounge, and they lined the files up in chronological order, stacked by decade. "Have you seen any from 1973? Or 1972?"

"They're in here somewhere, boss. Probably on the bottom."

"Why would they be on the bottom?"

"On account of when they fell. When we picked them back up, what was on the top went on the bottom."

"They...fell? When?" Sam stared at Chris, who shrugged.

"Few months ago. A bunch of us were playing footie in the hall there, and this door was one of the goals, and, well, ball came flying in and...it was kind of a domino effect."

Sam blinked. "Chris. You can play football on an actual pitch. Children grow up dreaming to play on a pitch like you've got, and you lot feel the need to play in the hall?"

Chris shrugged. "The Guv lets us."

"I'll bet he does." Sam stopped himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, despite a sudden, searing pain in his head that often struck him when he was encountered with extreme stupidity.

"They'll have left the pub by now, I reckon." Chris sounded wistful.

"Go on, Chris. I'll finish up here."

"You're sure, boss?"

"Yeah. Have one for me, will you?"

"Sure, boss!" Chris sprinted out, not giving Sam the chance to change his mind. He looked at the neat stacks on the table and sighed. More remained on top of the cabinets. Putting things into order. He was good at this. He enjoyed this. He picked up another file and started to move it to the table. Mark used to take the mick constantly about his talent for using accounting to relax. He would hang out in Sam's office for hours, making a nuisance of himself while Sam worked on one spreadsheet or another. Eventually, Sam would pretend to get sick of it and kick him out. Then Mark would either drag him out for a drink or he'd leave and turn up as Maya that night.

Sam didn't figure that anyone would be dragging him out tonight. 1973 was like a shroud hovering just over his head, threatening to smother him. And he had no idea why. He had the urge to scream, just to see what would happen. Instead, he faced the filing cabinet, grabbed hold of the handle on the top drawer, and kicked it. It made a dull, hollow sound. He kicked it again. And again. A dent began to form. He released the handle, stepped back, and laid into it. Over and over, only stopping when the files on top of the cabinet next to it, shaken by the vibration, toppled.

He stopped, and stared at them. Papers were spread across the floor.

"Shit." He dropped to his knees and started to gather them up, stuffing them into the folders that he thought they’d fallen out of. This was not good. Still, from what Chris said, they were probably in a jumble from falling before.

His eyes caught something as he started to stand. "1973". Finally. He pulled it out. It was Keens' file. A few moments later, which he spent pushing files aside on the floor, he came up with Carling's, Skelton's, and, at last, June's, as well as one on the side as a whole. He sat down with that one. It listed wages, among other things. June made more than Carling, despite being a junior player. Sam had suspected that Carling was past his prime, and this seemed to confirm that, but his main concern was determining who Trent might target. Here was the file saying that June was the best, and, worse, had a habit of letting his temper get the best of him on the pitch.

If Trent's ploy was to get a player tossed off for temper, June was a flint waiting to be struck. Sam closed his file and headed for Hunt's office.

"He in?" he asked the battle axe sitting at a desk in front of the door.

"No," she said, not looking up from whatever she was writing.

"I can see him." Sam pointed at the window, where Hunt was clearly visible through the blinds.

"Then why did you bother asking?"

"Phyllis..."

"What?"

"May I go in?"

"Suit yourself."

"Thank you."

Sam walked in. Gene didn't get up from the sofa. It was still strange to see such ugly furniture, but Sam supposed he would get used to it if he were stuck here long enough. Probably around the time he was able to go home... He dropped the file on the desk. "It's June."

"Think I told you that." There was no trace of gloating in Gene's tone, but his mouth held the smirk. "Could have saved yourself three hours of struggle if you'd listened to me in the first place."

"It’s always important to have evidence to back up a theory."

"Nothing theoretical about instinct, Sammy boy."

Sam shook his head. "Why aren't you down the pub with the others? Shouldn't you be knocking back a pint about now?"

"Went and came back. I'm serious about Trent, Tyler. I won't have him putting another of my side out, not when we've got two out as it is."

"You're positive he's planning something?"

Hunt sighed. He got up and moved around the desk. He perched on the corner of it and paused to take a drag from his cigarette. "You're new, but you've been around a few times, so I'm not sure what to make of this willful naiveté you seem so bent on exercising."

"Guv..." Sam was going to tell him that he wasn't naïve, just out of time.

Hunt waved his answer away. "When I say Trent is up to something, what I mean is, his strategy is going to be harmful to my players, and what is harmful to my players is harmful to the match, and what is harmful to the match, is harmful to me. Are you understanding?"

"Yes, Guv."

"Good." Hunt looked down at the file. "You find what you needed in there?"

"Just about. That room needs some serious organisation. If we could get someone in, just to put things in order..."

"Yeah, alright. Whatever you need." Hunt cut him off. He stood, went over and refreshed his drink.

"Guv? Are you o.k.?"

Hunt turned back to face him. "Keens is a pain in the arse, but he's a good lad, same for Tripper and Prokofiev. I won't have anyone going for Junie. You understand me?"

"Gene—it's not the same situation. No one's trying to kill him."

"No. No—it's just the worry talking. That's all. Go on home, Sam."

"Right. Don't stay too late, alright, Guv?"

"Missus likes me home at a reasonable hour. Don't worry about me."

"Alright." Sam left before Hunt could interpret the expression on his face as amazement. The Guv was married. Women really would put up with anything.

Back at his flat, Sam sat with the files in front of him on the bed. He knew Trent's strategy. That was a start. He had to use that to revise City's. He tore a page out of his notebook, wrote each of City's players on it, and tore it into pieces. He set them out in 4-3-2-1 formation with Skelton in the left-back position and Ratcher in the right-back. June went in at center-forward. June's was the one position he could not mess with, but Carling—he'd wanted to move him out of the back since he first saw him play. The man was a veritable bulldozer—he should be used to plow through the other side's defense, not to block the stringy-legged forwards they sent across the line. A few movements of the papers later, and he had Carling in the position of left winger with Ratcher taking his place in the back. This put Carling near June, so he could run interference between him and anyone Trent put against him.

Sam guessed that it would be Gordon Brick, who played centre-back for Arsenal. Sam didn't know anything about the guy, but the photo in the team roster showed someone who looked like he'd never heard a joke he found funny. He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing putting Carling in position of protection, given as Ray's temper was far from pristine, but it was the best he could do, and something Chris had said had convinced him to give Carling a chance at it. If he was as good a player as he seemed to think he was, then Carling should be up to the challenge. Sam put himself in the role of center back, though he had the feeling that Hunt would have some changes to make when he presented the line up to him in the morning. He had moved things around more than they were accustomed to, but there was another day before the match. Plenty of time for people to get accustomed to their new roles.

_Aren't you going to come play ball?_

Sam forced his eyes open. The strategy sheets were spread across his lap, exactly as he had left them when he fell asleep. He lifted his head enough to look at the television. What he wouldn't give for a remote. He stared at it. It was off.

_Don't be lonely, Sam. You can make friends playing ball._

He snapped his head in the direction of the voice. He could just make out a small form standing in the shadow beside the arm chair. He sat up as the bed groaned in protest at the sudden movement.

"Who are you?"

The form moved, coming partially out of shadow to reveal a glimpse of short, blond hair and an elbow, with a football tucked beneath it.

"Are you a neighbour? Are you lost?" He peered into the darkness, trying to see. "I can help you..."

_I'm your only friend. And I'm waiting for you to come play with me._

The ball dropped and bounced slowly towards him. Sam watched with increasing terror. It hit the wall directly below where Sam gripped the bed. As it bounced up and struck his hand, a gasp was wrenched from his throat.

He sat up in bed, soaked in sweat. The strategy notes were strewn across his lap, exactly as he left them when he fell asleep. He got out of bed cautiously, checking underneath it for the ball. Nothing. It had been a dream. He tried to tell himself that this was reassuring. Of all the skills that Sam had taken with him into this place, lying wasn't one of them. He settled for getting dressed and getting out as fast as he could, leaving his dreams and nightmares behind the closed door.

Gene didn't have as much of a problem with the new formation as Sam expected. He looked over Sam's charts with a blank expression, as though he were interpreting a child's drawing. "Better talk to Carling," he said, finally.

"Everyone keeps saying that. Why are you all so concerned about Carling? He's a member of the side—he should do what his manager tells him to do."

"He will, but you need to remember—you're coming in on foreign turf, Tyler. Don't go waving your dick around."

"Wouldn't want to get in your way, Guv."

Hunt's mouth curled slightly. "Arsenal is coming in tonight. Be ready, Tyler."

"I am, Guv."

"Oh, and Tyler?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you on left forward. Not center back."

"Guv—that's not my position."

"And now you know how Carling's going to feel." Hunt sat down at his desk, effectively ending the conversation.

Sam found Carling on the pitch along with the other lads. "Lads, I've made some changes to the usual formation. Gather round, please." He spread out the paper on the ground. "Chris, would you mind holding that down?" Skelton knelt above it and held the corners with his fists. "Now, this is just to show you what I have in mind. We'll discuss it further in our strategy meeting this afternoon. But I didn't want to lay any surprises on you when we need to be focused on preparing for the match. So, consider this a head's up. Harker, you're on goal."

"No surprise there," Sanders said. Ratcher elbowed him, and they grinned at each other. Sam ignored them.

"Ratcher, you'll be right-back."

"Am I going somewhere, boss?"

"Very funny."

Ratcher grinned. "Give us a fag, Ray."

Ray shoved Harker at Ratcher. "Enjoy him."

"Oi." Harker shoved back. Ray smiled and held a cigarette out to him. Harker accepted. He turned and offered it to Ratcher.

"Cheers, Harker."

"Welcome."

"Gentlemen—if we could get back to business?" Sam tapped the paper. "Carling, you'll be playing left wing.

"I'm a fullback," Carling said.

"I know. Usually. But for this match, you're a winger. An inside winger. Think you can handle that?" Sam said. "For the side?"

Carling inhaled his cigarette.

"I know it's outside your comfort zone. If you don't think you can play on offense..."

"'Don't go trying any of that psychosis shit with me."

"I just think that you'd be worth giving it a shot."

Carling shrugged. "Played offense when I was a lad, before I got big, like."

Sam nodded. "It's time to give it another try. What do you say?"

"You're the boss." He tossed his cigarette forward. It lay on the pitch, smoldering. "Whatever you say." He walked off, stepping on the discarded butt as he went.

Sam faced the others.

"You didn't picture that going any differently, did you?" June said.

"No." He had, actually, imagined a few punches being thrown.

"You know if we lose this match, the Guv will put you in a coma."

"What a change that would be." Sam bent down and picked up the cigarette butt.

He walked it to a rubbish bin. As he walked away, the bin began to smolder. Fortunately, the Manchester drizzle was there to make short work of putting it out.

At City of Manchester stadium, his office had been on the top level, and when he looked out he could see down onto the pitch and all the crowds, and past it, he could see the city itself. At night, when it rained—always raining—the lights from the traffic going round the Mancunian Way cast a blur of illuminated rainbow in the distance.

At Maine Road, he didn't have an office so much as a closet. It was on the third level and smelled like paint thinner. In his first week he had been interrupted more than once by a surprised but apologetic handyman. The desk was crammed in—he had the choice of either squeezing between it and the wall to get around to the chair or climbing over it. He had the 1970 version of a computer—a blackboard pinned up on the wall. The eraser was so old it left a film behind every time he used it. Still, he forced himself to spend time in it and to feel like he was working, keeping his management skills alive. It wouldn't do to wake up and be off his game.

Harker was waiting for him, sitting in the chair that Sam had placed outside for visitors, and looking as if he'd been sent to the headmaster's office.

"Alright, Harker?" Sam said. He held the door and gestured him in. Once inside, they quickly realized that there was no second chair, so Sam went out again, grabbed the one from the hall, and brought it in. There was no room for the door to close.

"Think you're being too hard on Ray."

"You're here to talk about Carling? Forgive me, Jonathan, but you don't strike me as the prime choice for being his advocate. Not exactly bosom buddies, are you?"

Harker shrugged. "He's not half bad if you give him a chance."

"I'm not being hard on him. I'm asking him to challenge himself. Be a team player."

Harker didn't have anything to say to that.

"Did the other lads put you up to this?"

This got a reaction—anger. "Don't need anyone putting me up to anything."

"I know." Sam wondered about Harker's background. Sam had heard Harker was hard, but so far nothing he'd done had made Sam believe this—not in the way he acted or the way he was treated. But here, it was just a flash, but it was something.

"Might be more to you than we think, Harker." It sounded like something Hunt would say. The idea didn't entirely put Sam off. Entirely. The Guv had his merits, when applied appropriately. He found himself smiling a little.

Harker took it to be directed at him. He gave a small smile in return.

"Don't worry about Carling. I know what I'm doing."

"Sure hope so." Harker was up now, dragging the chair out. It screeched on the floor. "See you, boss."

"See you, Harker."

Sam followed him to the door and stuck a hand out in farewell as he rounded the corner. Harker responded in kind. As Sam turned to go into his office again, a blur of movement caught his eye. He spun to catch it again, but it was gone. He ran down to the stairwell. Nothing, not even a swinging door. He went back to the blackboard and started working out strategies, and tried to tell himself that he had not just seen the blond head of a child zipping around the opposite end of the hall from where Harker had gone.

It didn't make sense, Harker coming in to talk about Carling. As far as Sam could tell, there was no great love between them. They didn't share the rough and tumble relationship that Carling had with Ratcher and Sanders, and the gentle affection Carling displayed around Skelton—well, that was exclusive to Skelton. If he had to list the players he expected to come talk to him about Carling, Harker would have been dead last. No, he hadn't come to talk about that. Sam didn't pause from mapping out players with x's and o's as he tried to figure out what Harker was doing. Being in motion helped him think. But, when he stepped back from the board, he saw that his hand had been doing some thinking, too.

If he drew a line from x to x and o to o, it spelled Mark. He grabbed the eraser and scrubbed him off the board. But he could still make out the lines..

He would give his left foot for a player like Mark right about now. Someone versatile and intelligent on the pitch, who could make decisions on a dime, and was able to anticipate his opponents' movements and react accordingly.

He trotted towards the gents, telling himself that was the only reason for wanting Mark there. It was for the good of the game, and not for all those other reasons that had nothing to do with it. The comfort of his friendship, even when Mark was driving him crazy with his obstinate refusal to put the game first, to think of the impact his actions outside the pitch would have on his playing. All his life, Sam had wanted a mate like Mark. He shut himself in the loo, turned the tap on, dunked his head under and gargled away his screams.

"You alright, boss?"

He pulled his head up to see Skelton coming out of one of the stalls. Skelton had stopped before exiting completely, and stood, looking confused. Sam rubbed his head, sending water droplets spraying.

"Sorry, Chris, I'm fine."

"Oh." Skelton nodded hesitantly. He moved toward the sink in the corner, keeping a distance between himself and Sam. Sam gritted his teeth.

"I've lost a friend recently, Chris. I'm having trouble processing it is all. I didn't mean for you to see that."

"Oh." Skelton turned the water on and began washing his hands.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about it." Sam focused on Chris's hand as it turned the tap off and the squeaking that came with the rotating metal.

"Don't worry. I won't tell." Chris looked up. Sam nodded.

"Thank you. You want to come to my office for a minute?"

Instantly, Skelton was on guard. "Not for organising?"

"No. Something else." Sam moved into the hall. He heard Skelton following.

In his office, Sam pushed the chair aside to make room for Chris. "What are you doing?" Skelton leaned into the office and gestured at the board. Sam leaned back to give him a better view.

"Just sketching out some plays. We have to work on our strategy."

"Our strategy's alright." Skelton came in and sat down.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"What is it?" Skelton echoed.

"Uh huh."

"Well, you know—win." He gestured vaguely.

"Your strategy is to win?" Sam repeated slowly.

"Yeah."

"And how do you do that?"

"Run faster and keep the ball more."

"And kick it a bit?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

Sam sighed. "I'm talking about formation, about emphasising your strengths and exposing your opponents' weaknesses. There’s more to football than just running fast and keeping the ball." Sam tapped the blackboard with the chalk.

Chris shrugged. "I don't know boss—there's not much more to it from where I stand."

"If we go down to ten men tomorrow, what do you think the side should do to compensate?"

"You're asking me?"

"I am."

"I don't know."

Sam handed him the chalk. "Think it out." He pointed at the board. This is tomorrow's formation. Let's say...this guy..." He crossed off the mark in the center that represented June..."gets knocked out for some reason. What happens next?"

"I don't know, boss." Chris gave an awkward smile. He was fidgeting towards the door, clearly waiting for a signal that he was released.

"Chris, it's my job to know. To always have a back up plan in mind. And that's what I'm doing. Sketching out all the possible scenarios for what to do if any of these players are taken out."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

"I'd never get a red card, boss." He drew himself up a bit.

"Yeah, you seem like an easy going guy, Chris."

"It's not that—it's just that I usually don't know someone's riling me up until the moment's passed and then I can't do anything about it. But it's alright."

"You've got Ray to get riled up for you." The truth hit then. Chris and Ray, the yin and yang to each other.

"Yeah. Exactly." Chris stopped and shook his head abruptly. "No—I mean I don't mind. Say, boss---"

"If you're going to tell me to put Carling back on defense, I don't want to hear it. He stays where I've put him."

"No, I was going to say I think he'll make a good forward."

"Really?"

"Well. If you think he will."

"Thank you, Chris. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome, boss." Chris started to get up. He moved closer to the board and stared at it as if he expected the X's to start moving. Finally, he shook his head. "All Greek to me."

"You'll get it some day, Chris. Just takes some thinking."

"Never been great at that. See you, boss."

"See you, Chris."

Chris was young and inexperienced, except Sam believed that what you saw was not necessarily what you got with Skelton. He suspected a complexity beneath the floppy hair and Labradorish demeanor. Perhaps the boy was hiding an intellect in there somewhere, way down under the complex of being taken for granted and pushed around, and Sam intended to find it. If he didn't, at least he'd have one person who didn't second guess him every step he took and might, ultimately, help him find his way home.

Sam picked up the eraser again. That was just crazy. No one could help get home. Some things, you just had to do for yourself.

Arsenal arrived a little past three in the afternoon. Their bus pulled into the lot, farting its arrival in exhaust spurts. Hunt and Sam stood out, ready to greet them.

"Going above and beyond, Sammy," Gene grumbled as the first players emerged from the bus, looking as if they had just awoken from a nap.

"It's important to show hospitality in any situation, Guv. We can kick their arses tomorrow."

"We'd damn well better." The players drew near.

"Welcome," Sam said. "Anything you need, just let the staff know."

"It's not a bloody hotel," Hunt said. He glared at a player who offered his hand. The player backed away, huddled behind a larger man, who made no effort to acknowledge Sam or Gene. "That's Freddy Wilson," Gene said, just quiet enough for only Sam to hear. "You'll want to watch him. And that one, there." He nodded at the final player emerging from the bus.

"Gordon Brick," Sam said. He recognised the humourless face from the photo. "Looks just as charming in person."

"Tyler, just breathing the same air as Brick can make a gregarious man such as myself as dull as a church wife giving a knitting lecture."

"Hello, Mr. Hunt." Brick came towards him, and clapped Gene on both shoulders. His grin was wide and leering. Before Sam could finish shouting 'Guv!', Brick was on his ass on the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam said. He started forward to help Brick up, but Hunt held him back. "He was abusing my hospitality."

"What? By saying hello?"

"Exactly." With that, he turned, and marched Sam inside.

"Where are we going?"

"Beer o'clock, Sammy. Time to concentrate on important things."

"Right. Priorities." Sam rolled his eyes behind Gene's back.

"I heard that, Sam."

Sam didn't try disguising his sigh.

"Don't you think we should be concentrating on the match tomorrow? Not on you getting your alcoholic fix in?"

"Why not do both?" Gene waited until Sam caught up to him, and then grabbed his arm and steered him towards the staff car park. Sam got into the Cortina and buckled himself in quickly, knowing that every moment the car was in motion, was a moment when he could be killed.

"Arsenal doesn't seem like such a rough group, aside from Brick and Wilson."

"Oh, but the things they can do. Sweet talkers."

"How do you mean?"

"They know how to get in your head, right where you don't want them." He glanced at Sam as he swerved the car to avoid a young woman. "Could be a disaster if they got in yours."

"Don't worry, they'll have a lot of company."

"I'm going to choose to ignore that."

"Thank you."

They arrived at the pub. Half the side was already there, gathered around a few tables. "Chris. It's your round," Hunt said.

Skelton sighed and trudged to the bar. Sam followed him up. "Chris?"

"This is my third round in a row. Harker's newer than me..."

"Harker grew up rough, mon," Nelson said. "You didn't."

Chris sniffed. "Just because I had an education..."

"You were proper schooled, Chris?" Sam said.

"Didn't sink in, though," Chris said. "Excuse me." He picked up the tray that Nelson had prepared and carried it back to the table.

"He don't like talking about it," Nelson said. "His daddy was a barrister."

Sam turned and watched Chris as he received joking pats on the back of his head. "Really."

"So they say. How are you my friend?"

"Well, I think we're going to lose another player tomorrow, possibly due to foul play, or anger mismanagement, but otherwise, I'm fine."

"So long as it's all sunshine and roses."

"Always is in 1973, isn't it?"

"You'd better hope so." Nelson's smile seemed more telling than cheerful. Sam shook off the uncomfortable feeling. and went over to the table with the others. He raised a glass off Skelton's tray. The beer flowed cool and smooth down his throat. A phone on the end of the bar began to ring.

"Nelson?" Sam looked around for him, and saw him on the other end of the bar, his hands full and a line of punters waiting for him. He set a glass down and started pulling a pint for a man in a paisley shirt. "Guess I'll get it myself," Sam said to no one. He picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Sam? I don't know if you can hear me..."

He straightened his back and pressed the receiver tighter to his ear. "Anders? I hear you. I'm here." He didn't know why he was whispering. His heart was beating so quickly, that he couldn't believe he wasn't shouting. He held the receiver with both hands.

"I...just wanted to say we're all pulling for you, mate. Jesper has us all wearing red arm bands. He says it's your favorite color. Thought it was purple, myself. No offense. It's giving the fans a bit of an identity crisis, if I'm honest."

Sam could feel his eyes pricking with tears. He blinked them back.

"He's asked me to take over for you. Picture me as a manager? Yeah." There was a soft coughing as Anders cleared his throat. "It's just until you're well. Come on back to us, Sam. Everyone's worried about you. I'm squeezing your hand. Don't know if you can feel it."

Sam looked released his right hand and flexed it. Nothing. He tried his left. Not even the shadow of a feeling.

"I have to tell you something about Mark, Sam."

"What is it?" Both hands were on the receiver again, and Sam hunched over the phone.

"But I can't talk right now. Visiting hours are ending. Next time, I promise. The others will come see you. And your mum, she's here all the time. Don't worry. We're taking care of her. You just concentrate on getting well. I'll see you later, Sam."

"Wait. What about Mark? Don't go. Please. Don't leave me here..." He was up on his knees on the stool,bent over the bar, rocking towards it. Desperation chilled him. The phone answered with a dial tone that sounded like death to him. "Anders? Hello?" Sam pressed the cut off and released it. Nothing. He hung the phone up. "I'm here," he said, looking up and letting the words carry where they would. Conversation carried on around him, as if nothing was wrong. He glanced down the bar and saw that Nelson was still tending to the man in the paisley shirt.

"I can see you're here, mate, now get out me way, you're blocking my chair."

Sam turned to see a punter glaring at him with a half-amused expression on his face.

"Sorry." Sam shifted.

Finally, he gathered himself, took a few deep breaths, and picked up his beer. He scrubbed his face clear of any stray tears, and went over to where the team was crowded around one of the tables. He edged in beside Skittles, who made room for him without comment.

"Been to see him yesterday, he's doing all right," Sanders was saying.

"Oh, aye, he'll be up and about before you know it," Carling said.

"Are you talking about Keens?" Sam asked. "How is he?"

"Doing o.k." said Skelton. "You ought to go see him, boss."

"I doubt he'll want to see me."

"You scared to see him?" Carling said. He was sitting beside Hunt, who had three empty pint glasses lined up in front of himself. He was working on a fourth, and since Carling had no glass in front of him, Sam suspected that it was in Hunt's hand.

"No." Sam could face up to blame, and he knew he probably should go and let Keens have it out with him for forcing him to carry on training. A decision which may have had something to do with his ultimately going into a coma... "I'm not scared. I'll go see him in the morning before training."

"Good." Carling nodded, and Sam realized this was the first thing he had ever done that Carling had approved of. He decided to leave while he was ahead, so he finished his beer, and left for the night, after suggesting that the others do the same in light of the training they were under. He left, having a strong idea that his advice was already forgotten. He got confirmation when he heard Hunt order Skelton to get another round. He paused, debating heading back in to tell them to ease up, but then a gust of wind caught the door and literally hit him in the ass, giving him the push he needed to get outside.

At his flat, he unplugged the television before he went to bed and moved the chair in front of the door. However that boy had gotten in before, Sam wasn't leaving any further opportunities. The kid could go creep out someone in another flat. When he slept, he dreamt about his first time playing for Man City on the Premier League side. Dreams were good for rewriting the truth, so instead of suffering the indignity of having the ball pass between his legs by McCarthy on the Arsenal side of 2005, who completed the nugget by picking it up at the back of him, Sam caught the ball and ran, circled around three, four, five defenders, never once passing, never once wondering why they had the faces of his mum and Auntie Heather and Dylan Rochester, a boy he had bunked with during youth training.

When he got to the goal, he readied for the shot. As he kicked, he felt the perfection of movement, the synchronicity of wind, physics, and time. This was the shot he had fantasised about making in those days and moments leading up to his debut. The shot that would make his legend—back when he still believed he could be a legend on the pitch. It was the shot that never happened; even though he scored enough to make his club happy, the feeling was never right. It was missing something—joy, perhaps, or... He took the kick.

His sleeping countenance opened into a smile. This was it, that feeling he always knew existed. It was only a matter of finding it. Here it was... He watched, his breath caught in his throat as the ball sailed towards the goal. It dropped, dropped, dropped, and he flew. The crowd screamed his name and stomped their feet. Then, silence. He had closed his eyes, in the dream, to keep the perfect feeling enclosed within him. With the silence, he opened them. There, in front of him, the goalie held the ball in his gloved hands.

"Sorry, Tyler," he said. He flung the ball back onto the pitch. Sam did not move. He stared at the goalie and replayed his motions in his mind. Tried to remember all the times he had looked at the goalie, checking his position as he neared the goal. It wasn't the same goalie now as it had been when Sam had first gained possession. He was certain of that, and more certain the longer the man stared him down.

Sam did not waver. Play went on around him. The ball passed through him. And Sam went on staring at Gene Hunt, who, despite not moving either, was still managing to block every shot that came his way simply by shifting his eyes towards it and glaring. Hunt threw his gloves down and walked towards him, leaving the penalty box empty. A ball flew towards it and disappeared. Then another and another. Hunt passed Sam, close enough to graze him, but Sam felt nothing. He inhaled, and his nostrils filled with the scent of chocolate and cinnamon. The smell seemed to come from Hunt.

Sam blinked, trying to find a reason for Hunt to smell like this and not the whiskey and smoke that coated him in life. He blinked again and was in an ice cream shop with an old fashioned fizzy drink in front of him in a tall glass loaded down with ice cream and a cherry. He closed his lips around the orange bendy straw and crossed his eyes to watch the fizzy liquid edge its way upwards. His mouth filled with anticipatory saliva. Then--"Sammy!"--a hand yanked him from his chair and dragged him away. He didn't turn to see who it was—he knew—he only watched sadly as his ice cream became more and more out of reach and wondered why he was suddenly too short to open a car door on his own. Before he could think about it too much, two hands grabbed him under his arms, and he was hauled into the passenger seat. He sat still as the seatbelt was locked over him. He pulled his foot into his lap and polished up the gold buckle with his sleeve as the man got into the driver's seat. Then he looked over at the large man beside him. He couldn't see his face, but he didn't need to.

"Where are we going?" He chirped in a voice that was not his. The man tossed a candy into Sam's lap. An answer came, but Sam couldn't make it out. The sound comforted him, though, and he sucked on his candy and thought about how nice it would be to have a gold car like this one day. Especially if he could drive fast.

He woke up on the floor. He had somehow hooked the sheet around his foot and dragged it down with him. He untangled himself and tossed it back on the bed. He glanced at the television. It was off. Good. From what little he remembered of appliances when he was four, he had a good idea that if they’d turned on and off by themselves, it would have stuck with him. He went into the bathroom, showered, and shaved. He planned to go see Keens before he went into work.

The hospital was the same one where Mark had been, or would be, he corrected himself., Driving there filled him with a disquietude and deja vu which did not abate as he walked down the halls and soon found himself standing in Mark's room, once again looking down at a dark haired man with a tube running out of his arm and into an I.V. Only this man was awake. Sam hovered at the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. "Suppose you think I owe you a thanks," Keens said. He shifted a little to a half-sitting position.

"For what? Making you carry on training so you'd have convulsions and almost die?" Sam said.

"You got Kramer, didn't you? Before he could get me again. They're saying he went back for Tripper."

"I hadn't heard that." Sam wondered just what Hunt had told the police.

"Well. Thanks anyway." Keens leaned towards him. "You understand that if you tell anyone I've said that, I'll deny it, and then I'll have you eating your teeth."

"It's good to know that some people still give gratitude its due, Keens."

"Isn't it?" Keens smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

"You'll be back with us before you know it," Sam said. He patted Keens's foot, but quickly took his hand away when Keens looked at him. It wasn't disgust in his expression, not exactly, but... Better off not touching, Sam decided.

"Don't think so."

"You'll be fighting fit soon enough."

"I'm not sure I want to come back."

"You're not transferring?"

"There are more important things than football."

"Such as?"

Now Keens grinned for real. "You're having me on. I know you aren't passionate about the game. You can't wait to be rid of it, for some reason. What's your secret, Tyler?"

Sam looked at the ceiling.

"Not going to find it there."

"I'm running out of places to look."

"Sorry. Can't help you." Keens dropped his head on the pillow as if the conversation had taken all he had out of him. "You won't tell anyone that I'm not sure about coming back?"

"If that's what you want."

"Thank you."

Sam watched for a moment as, Keen’s eyes drifted shut. The machine next to the bed kept up a reassuring beeping. He gathered his coat up and started out. The door slammed shut behind him. He jumped. A bit of wind pressure, he reassured himself. He continued down the hall, and another door slammed, again just behind him. The lights began going out. Sam's heart pounded. He clapped his hands over his ears and fought the urge to howl. He began running, fast as he could, feet pounding in time with his heart, staying just ahead of the slamming doors. Then, as he reached the last, it slammed in front of him. He smashed into it, and the force knocked him backwards. All the oxygen seemed to exit his body leaving him gasping for nothing, cold, empty, useless air insufficient to fill his lungs and stop the squealing in his head. He dragged himself to his feet and stared out the sliver of a window on the immobile door.

"Help. Help." He pounded the window, but no one came. He yelled until he lost the ability to form words. Tears streaked his cheeks, but these did not exist for him either. His chest constricted and he felt as if his insides were collapsing. He struggled to stay upright, to hold on—this was not the definitive leap he had needed to take, he knew instinctively that this was death, pure and simple. He had no sense of time or practicality—only crushing pain. He spent his last breath on a scream, and fell. 

[On to part 2](http://amproof.livejournal.com/362954.html)


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